


Breaking In Cuts

by SomewhereApart



Series: Breaking In [6]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Cut Scenes, F/M, Verse: Breaking In, original recipe Breaking In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22237099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhereApart/pseuds/SomewhereApart
Summary: Deleted scenes, original drafts, and other behind-the-scenes looks at Breaking In.
Relationships: Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Robin Hood
Series: Breaking In [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/920265
Comments: 16
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First off: Written way, way back in January 2015. The original version of how Robin ended up at Regina's during Labor Day weekend. Spot the differences! lol

Saturday rolls around, and Regina finds herself increasingly jittery. Even Henry notices, asking her if she’s alright when she taps an anxious staccato onto her steering wheel as she drives him to his sleepover. He had come home begging on Tuesday night - his friend Nicholas had asked if he could sleep over this weekend and could he please, oh please, he hasn’t seen Nicholas in forever. 

She’d agreed, had had no reason not to. 

But now it means she’s home alone for the evening, and she’s not entirely convinced that she won’t have a suitor on her doorstep expecting to take her out for an evening of live music and dead romance.

Sure, Sidney had _told_ her that he understood, that he would back off, and they’d had a perfectly pleasant progress meeting yesterday afternoon. But his gaze had lingered on her a time or two. Or five. There’d been a tension, a sort of pull, like she could physically _feel_ how badly he wanted to talk to her, to get her alone. When the meeting ended, she’d packed up and booked it out of the conference room so fast he hadn’t been able to make it around the conference table before she was out the door, snaring Kathryn into a conversation to keep herself occupied. To keep him at bay.

This was getting ridiculous.

She should never – should _never_ – have gone out with him in the first place. 

Leo was right. She hated to admit it, and he could have put it a bit more delicately and served it to her without the implication that ending up in _his_ bed would have saved her all this trouble, but he was right. She should never have dated a co-worker. What had she been _thinking?_

She missed Robin, that’s what she’d been thinking. 

And it was ridiculous, because it wasn’t as if their little romance – if you could even call it that – had lasted all that long. One great date, some heavy petting, and then the bombshell that had ripped them apart before they could even knit themselves together fully in the first place. 

But the fact of the matter was, she liked him. Plain and simple. He was attractive and charming, good to her son, and, okay, a bit of a mess. But he was the first man who had really truly kept her interest since Graham, and it seemed losing that had thrown her for a bit of a loop.

A loop that ended in an express train ride to Crazytown, apparently.

So now here she is, parking her car in the drive and jingling her keys loudly as she climbs out and shoulders her purse. She walks around to the front of the house instead of letting herself in the back way - it’s a habit she’s gotten into since she got the security system - it’s next to the front door, and she’d rather not have to rush across the main floor to key in the code to disarm it. But today she rounds the house for another reason entirely. Today she is glancing up and down the block for any sign of Sidney’s car, is trying to assuage the little pops of guilt that bubble in her belly every few minutes. For the first time, the dark windows of her house feel ominous. Foreboding. 

_Snap out of it_ , she tells herself, taking a deep breath as she turns her key in the lock. As the pleasant chirping voice from the alarm system intones _Front door_ , and then the alarm beeps beeps beeps softly as she crosses the few feet to the console and keys in her code - 81523. The voice again, _Disarmed_ , and Regina sucks in a breath, lets it out, turns around to flip the lock on the front door again, and flips on every light between the entryway and her kitchen.

She makes tea, because tea is soothing, it sounds soothing. And then she opens the pantry and frowns over what to make herself for dinner. Pasta, maybe. With the pesto cream sauce Henry always wrinkles his nose at. She’s not particularly hungry yet, but it’s something to do, something to think about.

She glances at the clock. It’s four-thirty now; if Sidney even shows up (he will show up, she knows it, she _feels_ it deep down), it won’t be for another hour and a half.

She presses a hand to her nervous heart and tells herself to cool it, to stop being ridiculous, there is nothing to–

The house settles and creaks. 

It does that now and again, as all old houses do, but this time it has her heart shooting up into her throat, has her stilling with one hand reaching for a box of linguini and listening hard for any follow up noise. Footsteps. The squeak of the stairs.

Nothing.

Silence.

The ice maker rattles in the fridge and she inhales sharply.

This is ridiculous. She’s not usually this nervy. She usually revels in the quiet nights alone at home - nights where she can read a book undisturbed, or watch a foreign film without having to worry about Henry keeping up, or take a long, steamy, lavender-scented bubble bath. Tonight, though, the quiet is unnerving. It feels heavy, anticipatory, tense. 

It’s one of the rare times she wishes she had a pet - a sleek black cat that would coil around and around through her ankles and purr and mew, trip her up while she’s trying to cook. Or maybe a dog, one that would sit patiently with a wagging tail waiting for scraps she would refuse to give it (but Henry would sneak food when she wasn’t looking, so the damn dog would wait anyway, ever hopeful). One that would try to lick at her fingertips, and would bite the face off anyone who tried to slip into her house unnoticed (of course, then her meeting with Robin would have gone much differently).

Someone should start a service, she thinks – renting out shelter animals to lonely people for a night, just so they’d have someone to talk to. Something to break the silence. They’d make a mint.

A good three minutes pass between having the thought and realizing that if she really wanted some canine companionship for the night, she could have it. All she’d have to do is ask, and there’s a very good chance she could have a shaggy mutt trying to spit clean her kitchen floor and hop up on her sofa.

She considers the idea for a moment, chewing her lip, then inhales deeply, exhales heavily.

Yes.

She’s going to ask.

She’s going to ask because she is tired of feeling this way, even for a night. Because she feels silly and stupid and weak, and she knows with Tuck in the house, she’d feel better.

So she leaves her tea on the kitchen table, grabs her keys and arms the alarm before she leaves (paranoia, she tells herself, but, well… she _feels_ paranoid tonight. Paranoid and annoyed). She descends her porch steps and walks the short trek to John and Robin’s. There are lights on inside – good – and when she presses the doorbell there’s a loud, friendly bark. 

Regina smiles, and thinks, _Much better_.

**.::.**

Robin is on the sofa, guitar on his lap, a soggy bowl of Frosted Flakes on the coffee table in front of him when the doorbell rings and Tuck barks his usual alert for company. 

On any other night, he might be annoyed at the interruption, but tonight, he’s relieved, if a bit confused as to who might be calling on him early on Saturday evening. Solicitors maybe, or Mormon missionaries. The way he’s feeling tonight – surly and sour, like a talentless hack and directionless fool – he’d probably welcome them. Sign him right up, maybe Heavenly Father and the promise of his own planet (if the musical is to be believed) are exactly what he needs.

But what he finds on the other side of the door is even better: Regina.

Dressed down today in jeans and a thin top, just a light brush of makeup on her face. Lovely as ever. He dismisses his usual pang of guilt and regret at the sight of her - he’s accustomed to it now, breathes it out and smiles at her as Tuck trots up behind him, tries to nose around him as soon as he recognizes just who it is on the other side. 

“Get!” Robin scolds him softly, pushing the pup back out of the doorway before greeting, “Hello there, Miss Mills. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit tonight?”

“Actually,” she says, lifting one of her crossed arms to point behind him at the dog now plopped just behind his heels. “I was hoping I could borrow Tuck.”

She smiles encouragingly at him, grimaces seekingly, but she’s hunched, he realizes. Arms crossed over her chest again, fingers gripping her biceps loosely, shoulders tight. Tense. It makes him frown. Something’s bothering her.

Robin tilts his head slightly, asks, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yeah, yes,” she insists – and in Robin’s experience three _yes_ es usually make a _no_. “Everything’s fine, I just… Henry’s gone for the night, the house feels a bit… empty.”

There’s something in her expression – or maybe it’s that there’s nothing in her expression. It’s pleasant, but unnatural. A small smile tipping her lips up, but not a genuine one. She looks hopeful – that’s real enough – but everything else is… off.

“Are you sure?”

Her brows lift. “That the house feels empty? Yeah, I’m pretty certain; why else would I be asking to borrow the neighbor’s dog for company?”

Robin blows out a breath, shakes his head, “I only meant – You look tense, that’s all. Are you sure you’re really alright?”

Her brows knit, lips pursing, then opening as she inhales, freezes. Like she’s trying to decide whether to speak up or shut up. 

When she doesn’t speak for a solid five seconds, he tells her, “You can take the dog either way, I don’t mind. I just want to make sure nothing’s wrong. You look like you want a guard dog more than company.”

She hovers in her indecision for a moment more, presses her lips together, then deflates and looks askance, fingers tightening on her arms then relaxing. Finally, she admits, “I went out with this guy a few times,” and he knows that, doesn’t need to be told. Feels the low burn of jealousy he has no right to feel and pushes it right down to join the guilt and regret and affection he shouldn’t be feeling for her either. When she confesses the man he’d seen kissing her isn’t someone she’s interested in dating again, he’s more relieved than he has any right to be. But she continues, tells him, “But he’s having a hard time hearing that. He keeps texting and sending me flowers, and leaving me gifts, and we work together, so it’s… incredibly awkward. And going out with him was probably stupid in the first place, but he’s asked me out at least four times a year since…” She shakes her head a little. “Since I’ve known him. Anyway, he bought tickets for this concert tonight, and I told him no, that I was flattered but I really didn’t think we should see each other again, and he _sounded_ like he finally got it, but…” 

She frowns, chews her lip for a second, and Robin supplies, “But you’re not so sure.”

Her arms finally uncross, her hands splaying open in front of her, palms up, then fisting. “I keep seeing him places, the last few weeks. I run into him at least twice a week, and in places I’ve never seen him before. The grocery store, and the park – he doesn’t even live nearby here.”

“He’s stalking you?” Robin asks with a rise of his brows. He likes this guy less and less with each word she speaks.

“No,” she denies, shaking her head, and then a wincing, “I don’t know. It’s just… odd. It might be all in my head; I’m probably making this into a much bigger thing than it is. But I just have this… feeling.” Her fingertips point in toward her belly. Her gut. “I can’t say how, I just know he’s going to show up at six o’clock, even though he said he won’t.”

Robin nods, a troubled frown upon his face. This is unacceptable. _That_ he’s certain he has a right to feel. Any man who makes a woman feel the way she does now is unacceptable. And he won’t leave her alone in that house if there’s even a chance there’s some spurned suitor who won’t hear no for an answer coming to knock at her door.

“What if I came over for the evening?” he offers.

Regina blinks, surprised. “What?”

“You can take Tuck, absolutely. If you’re feeling unnerved alone, of course, take the dog. But I’ve nothing to do this evening, so if you’d like more than the dog for company, I could come over, see to it that you’re safe.” He shrugs and adds, “Plus, I’m fairly certain you’ve more in your kitchen than the bowl of cereal I’m presently having for dinner.” 

Her eyes roll skyward, not a lick of offense that he’s essentially roping her into cooking him dinner – it’s entirely a gesture of exasperation, one that is likely completed with a mental utterance of _Men!_

“And if that wanker shows up and tries to bother you, I’d be happy to have more than a conversation with him.”

She breathes in, out, her momentary judgment of his culinary choices apparently forgotten, replaced with a look of vulnerability he’s unused to seeing on her face. She’s frightened. This tosser has actually managed to make her feel threatened, feel scared, and Robin has a fierce urge to wring his sodding neck between his bare hands.

 _She’s not yours_ , he reminds himself. _Just a neighbor. Just a friend. Just a lovely, kind woman in need of a protector for the evening._

Or maybe not, because she’s telling him, “I can fight my own battles, thank you. But… the company would be nice.” Her tone goes dry as she adds, “And I’d hate for you to starve.”

“That settles it, then,” Robin smiles, lifts his arms and opens his palms, then lets them fall. “Just let me grab my keys, and we’ll be off.” He steps back and leaves the door wide open for her to follow, smirks when she adds, _And dump your cereal_ , in the way she likely does with her boy whenever he’s about to wander off from the breakfast table without clearing his plate. “Yes, of course,” he calls back, detouring through the living room to pick up said bowl and deposit it in the kitchen. “Mustn’t forget that.”

She doesn’t answer, and doesn’t follow him through the house, and thank goodness for it, because it’s a bit of a sty at the moment. When he returns to the door, she’s crouched in front of Tuck, has already clipped the leash hung by the door to his collar, and is scratching at his ears and smiling, muttering something about how he’s a good dog, yeah, he’s gonna come visit her house tonight, and there will be no putting his grubby paws up on the couch, she hopes he knows that.

Robin grins and stays just out of her line of sight for a moment, watching. Just a moment - he only takes one. 

And then he steps forward, claps his hands together and says, “Alright, milady. Your valiant knights await you.”

She straightens and lets her eyes roll again, shaking her head, but she’s smiling as she leads them out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For OQ Prompt Party 2020: Prompt: Breaking In - Labour Day Sunday whipped cream round

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For OQ Prompt Party 2020: Prompt: Breaking In - Labour Day Sunday whipped cream round

He’d said they should fuck in the guest room, just to “tick it off the list.” It had been a joke—mostly. He still wasn’t entirely convinced they shouldn’t forego sex altogether so she could get at least one good night of beauty sleep before Henry came home.

Regina had just smirked and told him to meet her there with the whipped cream. She wanted to “freshen up.”

He’s not entirely sure why, she’d seemed plenty fresh to him, and he’d been rather looking forward to trailing her up the stairs and getting an up-close peek at just how good her arse looked in those denim shorts. But what she wants this weekend, she gets. So he’s here, sitting on the edge of the bed, idly flipping the whipped cream canister as he waits for her arrival. 

The last time he was in this room was Henry’s birthday party—when he’d followed her up the stairs and ended up kissing her. Holding her. Feeling once again adrift in a sea of ever-changing expectations of what was right or good or allowed. It feels infinitely better to be here now, while they’re dating-in-everything-but-name and he can do whatever he wants so long as nobody is around to see it. 

What a difference three weeks can make. 

Robin’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he fishes it out—a text from Marian, a photo of Roland with blue frosting smeared on his face, a festively frosted cupcake gripped in one hand, and a huge grin on his face. Robin’s own smile spreads immediately in response.

A message pops up right beneath it: _Thanks for letting me spend the weekend with Mommy! Love, Roland_

It was a concession he’d been less than thrilled about when Marian had requested it, but considering how he’s spent the last few days, he cannot say he minds the shift in their custody this weekend. Not in the slightest.

He shoots back: _Tell him he’s very welcome and give him a kiss goodnight for me_

_He passed out in a sugar coma an hour ago, but I’ll give him a good morning kiss tomorrow._

_That’ll do,_ he replies. She doesn’t answer, and he’s glad of it—his son is the last thing he wants to be thinking about when Regina returns from whatever is taking her so bloody long in the other room. He takes one last glance at the photo and then, in the interest of setting a less family friendly mood, pulls up the playlist he’d made for this weekend. They hadn’t gotten around to it yet, and this seems like their last chance, so he punches the volume up a bit and hits play.

The opening notes of Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” are immediately recognizable, and he’s pretty sure he hears Regina’s laughter echo down the hall in response.

Good. 

Her playlist had been… sultry. Seductive. A good mix of slow-and-sexy, and slow-and-romantic, and hot-and-heavy.

His is a bit cheekier. A bit less subtle.

By the time she saunters into the room and blows his bloody mind it’s moved onto “Laid,” by James.

She shows up in the doorway as the singer croons _But she only comes when she’s on top_ , and he’d appreciate the kismet of that entrance if he wasn’t too busy trying to pick his jaw up off the ground.

She’s changed clothes.

Into that same snug skirt she’d been wearing to his gig with Tink, but instead of the blouse she’d worn with it, she’s in one of her tight white button-down shirts. Or it would be tight, if it was properly buttoned, but she’s left it open nearly down to the navel, a black bra that is most certainly a push-up making her tits look absolutely fantastic. 

She’d been barefaced and gorgeous all day, but she’s swiped on some plum-colored lipstick and a dusting of shadow and mascara now. 

Christ, she’s even wearing the bloody black stiletto pumps. 

She’s smug—and she has absolutely earned the right to be; he’s already hard at just the sight of her—leaning against the door jamb and telling him, “If I remember correctly, you said this skirt was what wet dreams were made of. And that it gave you very ungentlemanly thoughts when in the vicinity of office furniture.”

Her gaze slides pointedly toward the desk, and he has just enough brain power to think that she’s _bloody perfect_. The whipped cream canister nearly slips from his slackened grasp; his fingertips tighten on the cool metal just in time.

“Please let me fuck you on that desk,” he requests earnestly, _desperately_.

Regina just grins. One of those wide, white, bright-as-the-sun grins that makes everything inside him light up. It goes mischievous as she pushes off the door; she’d had her arms tucked between her arse and the wood, so it’s only now that he catches a brief glimpse of the lube she’d grabbed before leaving the bedroom.

Probably a good idea, all things considered. 

“Eventually,” she concedes, setting the bottle on the desk as she leans against the edge of it and gives him an appraising look. She clearly has _plans_ , and whatever they are, he is absolutely game for them. “But first, I thought I’d work off most of this lipstick on… dessert.”

Her gaze drops to the whipped cream, back up to his, one brow quirking in invitation, and Robin groans. He is absolutely dead certain there's been some sort of karmic mix-up and he’s been granted someone else’s good fortune, because there is no way he’s earned _this._

Her, all dolled up for him, and wanting to suck whipped cream off his cock until her lipstick smears? He’d known she had it in her, the uptight ones always do, but Christ, he’d thought they’d been about to wind down their weekend, not set off a whole grand finale of fireworks. 

She nudges the desk chair out with her foot then jerks her head toward it—a clear command of just where she wants him. Robin couldn’t deny her if he tried; he rises like she’d put a spell on him, the simmering heat of lust in his gut leading him to her side in a few short strides. She nicks the canister from his hand, giving it a good shake as he plops down into the chair, pushing it back a bit more. 

When she sets the whipped cream back on the desk and drops to her knees between his spread thighs, he thinks he might die. Her tits look amazing from this angle (from any angle, but he’s a man, and that bra does incredible things for her cleavage when he’s looking straight down at it), and she settles her hands on his knees, running them up, up, up, dark eyes on his the whole time. Her tongue peeks out to wet her lips, and his head drops back for a second as his cock throbs.

She hasn’t even touched him yet and he’s already halfway there. Fuck. 

It doesn’t escape her notice (how could it?). She reaches his fly, fingers grazing up the length of him before she unbuttons, taunting, “You going to last long enough to fuck me on that desk?”

Robin tips his head back up to look at her, and confess, “I’m really glad we’ve fucked so many times already today, that’s all I’ll say.”

Regina just smirks.

**.::.**

She feels drunk.

She’s not—she’d never have gotten behind the wheel if she had been; two beers doesn’t even get her tipsy. 

But the _power_ is hitting her like three shots of whiskey on an empty stomach.

It’s the second time today she’s had him putty in her hands, and if anything this time is even better than the first. This afternoon, it had taken her lips, her tongue, and a near-orgasm or two to get him panting for her. Tonight, all it’s taken is a tight skirt and an offer to do exactly what they’d flirted about at dinner. 

His eyes are dark, pupils wide as she draws his zipper down tooth by tooth. She doesn’t want to linger too long on her newly rekindled obsession with delayed gratification, but she absolutely wants to indulge it, here, now, with him. She watches him as she slowly unzips, watches the way he looks from her, to the zipper, to her, to the zipper until she’s drawn it all the way down and his tented boxer briefs are pressing up through the gap. 

She doesn’t even have to ask for his assistance in removing his jeans, his hips are already lifting as her hands slide up to his waist, even before she orders needlessly, “Off.” 

Together they shove both his jeans and underwear past his lap, Regina drawing them down to the floor and off, then dropping them in an unceremonious heap next to the chair. When she glances back up at him, he has his hand cupped around the base of his cock, his thumb rubbing lazily up and down the length, and it’d be incredibly hot if he wasn’t still wearing his shirt. 

Easily corrected. 

She runs her hands up his thighs again, enjoying the way the muscle twitches as she lets her thumb skim along the inside, then veer away at the last second. She continues the stroke up his hips, under the offending fabric of his shirt, until it's rucked half way up his chest, and she can tell him, “This needs to go, too.”

It’s off in a flash, tugged up eagerly and dropped onto the rest of his clothes as she peppers feather-light kisses over his belly, his chest. This lipstick is not smudge proof, not in the slightest, and each spot she dots her lips leaves a faint purple ghost behind. When he relaxes back into the chair again she turns her attention to his nipples, enjoying the way his breath hitches when she teases her tongue against one, then the other, treating each of them to a soft, lingering bite before making her way back down his body. 

She doesn’t miss his quietly hissed, “Christ alive.” 

Regina smirks, wraps her fist around his cock just the way he had moments ago and gives it a lazy stroke. It’s _hard_ , thick and full and hot in her hand, and she’s almost embarrassed that her mouth actually waters at the thought of what she’s about to do with it. Drunk on the power, for sure. One more lazy pass from base to tip and back again, and then she glances up to make sure he’s watching and presses a kiss to the tip (he swallows, hard), another one below, another below that, this one with a hint of tongue. They’re firmer than the kisses she’d dropped on his torso, each one leaving a distinct smear of plum behind. It occurs to her that she maybe should have chosen a color that would look less like she was decorating his cock with bruises but from the way he’s started to pant lightly as he watches her, he doesn’t seem to mind. 

He mutters a barely there, “Fuck…” as if she needed additional confirmation. 

Regina sucks an open-mouthed, tongue-filled kiss against the base of his cock to keep from grinning, then smooches her way back up until she’s swirling her tongue beneath his foreskin and making him shake out a heavy breath and low moan. One more soft kiss and she leans back, reaching over to grab the whipped cream from the desk and give it a shake.

And then she has a decision to make. She’s never actually done _this_ before, and she’s not exactly sure the best way to go. Whatever she chooses seems like it’s going to be… messy. Sticky. He’s the one with all the fantasies about licking condiments off his partner, not her, and now that the moment has arrived, she finds that drunk-with-power feeling rapidly fading into I’m-going-to-look-ridiculous anxiety. 

But he is still into it, watching her with anticipation, and as always he’s stupidly perceptive. He reaches a hand out to tuck away a lock of her hair and asks, “What is it, babe?”

She doesn’t want to break the fantasy, so she musters all the confidence her stiletto pumps and push-up bra can give her and tilts her head, trying to be flirty as she narrows her eyes at his cock and asks, “Just trying to decide if I should go ice cream cone or eclair...”

Robin laughs, but she’s fairly certain he’s not laughing _at_ her, so she joins him, chuckling and shaking her head.

“Any requests?” she wonders.

“Eclair first, then cone,” he tells her, his voice quiet, private, as he adds, “I like when you lick the tip.”

“Yeah?” she asks softly, her gaze steady on his; for a second, it’s far too intimate for a debate over how to slather whipped cream on his business. They’ve gone from sultry to laughing to quiet murmuring in quick succession, and his thumb traces her cheekbone as she asks, “Like I just did?”

That thumb skims down, tracing her lower lip in a way that makes her pulse skip as he murmurs, “Exactly like that.” She kisses the pad of his thumb, impulse, and feels the slight dampness as he drags it lazily down her chin, the column of her throat. “But when you do that, it makes me want to be in your mouth, properly. Want to watch you suck my cock until I think my brain’s gonna melt out my ears.” She laughs quietly at that, rolling her eyes at him. “So. Eclair first.”

“Then brain melting.”

“Exactly.”

She shakes the can again, more out of nerves than necessity, and reminds him, “Stop me before you’re too far gone for the desk.”

“Oh, I will, don’t you worry,” he assures.

And then she squirts a line of the sweet stuff from the base of his cock to the top. It must be chilly—his cock twitches at the contact—but it’s chased soon enough by the warmth of her tongue. She starts at the base with that too, licking and sucking to clear the cream away as Robin pants lightly above her. He’s salty-sweet with the mixture of skin and whipped cream, and she finds herself moaning softly. He may be onto something here, after all. 

She makes her way to the tip, then squirts a dollop there, teasing him by licking at the cream more than him, catching his skin with just the edge of her tongue until there’s almost none left. Then she sucks that little bit away with a swirl of tongue that makes him moan softly, and eases back to squirt another line of whipped cream down his cock and make her way from tip to base this time.

“Tease,” he sighs, as she takes her time, more tongue, less suction. She rewards his admonishment with a very, very gentle scrape of her teeth. Not enough to hurt by any means, but enough that she feels his cock twitch. “Fuck, Regina…”

She chuckles darkly, then finishes cleaning him off, swiping at some cream that smeared onto her chin and sucking it off her thumb.

“How’s dessert?” he asks, fingers in her hair again. 

“Surprisingly delicious,” she replies, earning a breathless scoff. 

“Surprisingly?”

“I had my doubts,” she admits as she squirts a swirl of whipped cream over his head. “But…” She doesn’t continue the thought, letting her actions speak for her as she slurps up the swirl until her tongue is on him, teasing just the way he likes against his head. His breath shudders out in a way that’s far too satisfying, so she keeps it up a while longer, easing his foreskin back gently and sucking at the tip of him, letting him slip in and out of her lips. 

There’s a sound he makes, a plaintive little _unh_ that thrills her; she draws it out of him once, twice, then pulls back and gives him another little dollop of cream. His belly jerks slightly at the contact, and his left thigh twitches under the palm she has resting there as she sucks him in slow and hard. 

“Bloody… fuck…”

Regina smirks, and sucks, uses her tongue to tease when she pulls back and hollows her cheeks when she has him deep. It doesn’t take long for his hands to tangle in her hair, doesn’t take long for them both to forget about the whipped cream as she bobs over him and listens to him gasp and groan. 

His hips jerk, once, and then his fingers are cupping beneath her chin, guiding her up and off. He must be close (he’s stone hard and she can feel his pulse in the vein just under where her thumb is resting), but she’s not quite finished yet. So she bats his hand away gently and wraps her lips around the head again, teasing him with her tongue until he makes _that_ sound again, again, again. Until he gasps her name, fingers tugging gently at her hair.

Then she draws back with a grin, intending to tease him about being done when she’s good and ready, but before she gets the chance, he’s pulling her up into his lap and kissing her deeply. She combs her fingers into the hair at his nape and kisses the hell out of him, giving back as good as she gets, careful not to press against his cock and give it any more stimulation. 

He leans forward into her, further and further, until she realizes he’s kissing her off his lap, pushing them both up and onto their feet. They stumble a little, blind and off-balance, and she’s pretty sure she kicks the whipped cream over before her ass hits the edge of the desk. 

He finally breaks from her then, breathing, “That was bloody brilliant,” into the space between them, before his hands cup her breasts through the lace of her bra. She itches to stroke his cock again, but holds back. She wants him, badly, and she’s wet and aroused but not nearly close enough for him to get her off in just a few thrusts so she owes him a little cooling off period. All evidence to the contrary, she _can_ enact some amount of self-control with him. To keep her hands busy, she reaches for the few buttons left closed on her shirt (it occurs to her that he’s naked as a jaybird and she’s still fully clothed), but shakes his head and urges, “Don’t. Leave it on. I want you like this—all dressed for work like you were that night in the bar.”

She bites her lip and nods, presses her palms to his ribs instead and teases, “It turns you on, hmm?”

“Mmhmm,” he hums against her lips, kissing her again, again. “Wanted you. So much.”

“What’d you—want to do?” she whispers between more breathless kisses. “Do it now.”

Robin groans, and hoists her up onto the desk, shoving her skirt up a few inches so he can wedge in between her legs as his mouth finds her throat and sucks hot kisses there. She has an intense flash of deja vu, of being in this exact position with him weeks ago, in this same skirt, on a different desk, their kisses whiskey soaked instead of sugar sweet. Clearly, it’s a fantasy he’s revisited a time or twelve. 

She hooks her ankle around his thigh just the way she had that night, but that’s where the resemblance ends. Because tonight, now, he’s free to do whatever he wants with her, and instead of shamelessly groping her ass like he had that night, he’s running a hand up between her thighs, no hesitation, no friendly restraint. He sucks in a breath when he discovers she’s not wearing any underwear, her sex bare and easily accessible. 

“Naughty,” he breathes against her neck; Regina just nods.

He’s found her clit and started to rub little circles around it, quick and tight. She’s wetter than she’d realized, his fingers dipping down to gather a bit more moisture and slick her up–and thank God, because they’ve had a lot of sex this weekend, a lot of sex _today_ , and even though it’s been hours since her last orgasm there’s an edge of friction to the pleasure of his fingers against her. 

Robin makes his way back up to her mouth, lips meeting, tongues teasing. His fingers slip down, slide lower, and they both shift, Robin’s free hand grasping her thigh and tugging her hips closer to the edge, Regina leaning back to rest her weight on one hand. He slips two fingers inside her and murmurs against her mouth, “This is what I wanted that night. I’d wanted it for weeks, ever since that night at my place.” His fingers thrust and curl, and Regina’s head drops back on a heady moan. “To feel you around my fingers again… Watch you gasp… Make you come…” 

For several blissful moments, Regina just enjoys, lets him draw soft moans and gasps from her as the pleasure builds and builds. He kisses her throat, her collarbones, her lips; her free hand runs along his bicep, his shoulders, his ribs. Finally, she makes her way down to his cock, wrapping her fingers around his length and giving him a stroke. He moans softly and she opens her eyes to catch him nodding encouragingly. 

“Robin,” she gasps, waiting until his gaze meets hers to ask, “Is that all you wanted to feel me around?”

His gaze heats, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips, and then his fingers are drawing out of her, both hands tugging at her knees until she hops down to her feet in the slim space between him and the desk. 

Regina grins. 

That’s more like it.

**.::.**

She’s going to be the death of him. 

He’s thought it before and God willing will think it again, for weeks, months, years. 

No, of bloody course his fingers weren’t all he wanted her wrapped around that night and she bloody well knows it. He grins back at her, wolfish, and tells her, “No, I also wanted this.”

And then he spins her to face away from him, groaning internally at the sound of her palms slapping against the surface of the desk to brace herself as he attempts to tug her skirt up her thighs. He’s going to fuck her just like this, bent over the desk, skirt bunched up around her hips. The way he might not have been picturing on that night in particular, but has certainly imagined plenty of times since. 

Or he would if this skirt wasn’t so sinfully, delightfully tight. He only makes it a few more inches up her thighs before he realizes _up_ isn’t happening and reaches for the zipper at the back, yanking it down and baring her bum, giving it a playful smack as the skirt falls to the floor.

She jumps and gasps at the little spank, and when she scowls he thinks maybe she hadn’t liked it and feels a momentary lance of guilt. But then she’s telling him, “Wait—the condom was in the waistband of the skirt…”

Right. 

Condoms. 

Bollocks.

He bends to find it, but doing so puts him in far too tempting proximity to her, well, everything. He spies the condom and nicks it into his grasp, then plants hot kisses up the back of one thigh, nipping lightly at the curve of her arse and then running his tongue along the crease between cheek and leg, making his way inward.

She stiffens noticeably, and Robin can only imagine she’s concerned he’s about to lick a decidedly less proper place than the one he’s so intimately familiar with already. He presses on her lower back to bend her forward slightly, runs his tongue intentionally _low_ , and makes sure to run his tongue _down_ toward her clit when he reaches her cunt. That tension eases immediately when she realizes he’s staying in safe territory, her hips rocking back toward him as he flutters his tongue against her clit the way she likes. He doesn’t linger long (he’s been waiting what feels like ages now, and he wants to be inside her), but he takes a few moments to savor the feel of her against his tongue, the flavor of her before it inevitably gets mixed with the lube he hasn’t forgotten is sitting on the desk, the way she responds when he starts giving her clit firm little sucks. 

When she gasps his name, it’s about all he can take. 

He pushes to his feet again, makes quick work of the condom and looks for the lube only to find she’s taken the moment he spent gloving up to straighten and get herself ready. She’s capping the lube with a sharp click and tossing it back to the desk, glancing back over her shoulder at him when she’s done. Robin takes a step closer and lines up, asks, “You ready for me, love?”

Her “God, yes,” in reply is all the permission he needs.

The sound she makes as he sinks into her is hot enough that he needs to take a moment, hands gripped tight on her hips, before he fills her completely. His lips drop to her shoulder, the side of her neck, and she cranes her head back to find him for a proper kiss. It’s a bit awkward, has a bit too much tongue, but they’re both so keyed up that neither minds a bit. He’s still kissing her when he presses in the rest of the way, burying himself deep until her hips are pinned snugly between him and the desk, and the moan she lets out at _that_ reverberates into his mouth. 

She laughs a little, breathy and light, pressing her ass back against him (how she manages to get them even closer, he cannot figure out), and murmuring, “This is hotter than it has any right to be.”

“It really is,” he agrees, because Christ, they’re just fucking in the guest room, just talking about old fantasies, but it’s quickly making its way up the ladder of Absolutely Brilliant Sexual Encounters with Regina. And he’s determined to bump it right up to the top rung, so he draws his hips back and fucks into her hard, deep, earning a low, open moan in response. “Fuck, keep moaning like that,” he murmurs into her ear, giving her another deep thrust. “Let me hear you.”

Her “Yeah?” in response breaks off into another moan halfway through, and he’s grateful for the lube because neither one of them seems particularly committed to the lazy pre-bedtime fuck he’d imagined they’d have for the sake of her overworked body. This is going to be quick and rough, and the lube has made her slick and slippery enough that he doesn't have to worry about the eager pace he sets. 

They are not quiet.

His rhythm is sharp enough that he can hear the slap of his body against hers with every thrust, and firm enough that the desk rattles just a bit, a pen skittering across its surface—although he’s not sure if its from the jostling or the way her palm has just slipped on the smooth wood. He gasps and grunts, lost in the feel of her, the heat of her, and she is following his request to the letter, not stifling a single moan, or the litany of “fuck!”s and “Oh, God”s and “unh, Robin!”s that tumble out of her with every thrust. She’s tightening around him, that slipped hand groping back to grasp his thigh, his hip as he rails her, the other still planted firmly on the desk for stability. 

And then he shifts, just slightly, for better leverage, and it must change the angle because she gasps, “Oh! There! Right there…”

“That’s it?” he pants, shifting his grip on her hips to hold her steady and driving in hard at exactly the same angle. 

He wouldn’t need her eager nod; the wail of pleasure she’d let out was answer enough. But the softly breathed, “God, fuck me,” that follows is his absolute undoing. 

He’s helpless to do anything but obey.

**.::.**

She feels like she’s melting, from the inside out. Robin is working her g-spot with bone-melting precision, making her thighs shake, making her belly molten; she can’t think beyond the pleasure of it all. 

And he’s not even touching her clit.

It’s a dizzy realization, one that has her laughing giddily as she tells him she’s close, _so close, fuck, right there, don’t stop_ …

She’s going to be sore tomorrow, every deep thrust driving her hips against the desk in a way that aches pleasantly now but will no doubt have bruises dotting her hipbones later, and the slipperiness of the lube can only do so much to offset the oversensitivity of _too much sex_ , but she doesn’t even mind. She can’t be bothered to care. It all feels so _good_ , so sinful, like she’s being utterly debauched and loving every moment of it. 

She can feel her orgasm rising, building, coiling tighter and tighter in her belly with every thump of his cock that hits just right and that tremble in her thighs seems to spread suddenly. Her hands are shaky and restless, nails scraping over his thigh, fist rising to grip his hair. She feels like her whole body is starting to vibrate, like she’s going to shake apart into nothingness in the best possible way. His fingers pulse against her hips for a moment, his breath hot against her neck, his low grunts in her ear, and her knees go weak. 

Why are they standing? She’s not sure she can keep standing.

One leg wobbles as he drives into her again, hard, deep, rolling another desperate sound up and out of her as she careens even closer to the edge. His hold on her is solid enough that she doesn’t lose her footing in the slightest, and she realizes that desk or not, he’s holding her up exactly where she needs to be and not letting go. And suddenly all she wants is to _let go_ herself, to be completely at his mercy and just let everything wash over her. 

The hand she’s been using to hold herself up pushes off the desk, rising to join the other behind his head, her fingers linking at the back of his neck, her only anchor the grasp of his fingers. They tighten against her and he moans, a rough, ragged thing, his voice thick when he turns his head to press a kiss to her bicep and murmurs, “That’s it, babe, I’ve got you…”

“Don’t stop!” she gasps, and oh God, he doesn’t, he doesn’t even slow. 

Her grip behind his head has bowed her back slightly, and he’s still hitting the same _spot_ but there’s a roll to his thrusts now that has turned every breath in and out of her lungs into a gasp. And then he’s urging her to come on his cock, and heat flashes through her at the knowledge that she is absolutely about to do just that, her shaky fingers gripping more tightly as he thrusts, again, again, urges her one more time and chases it with this moan of enjoyment and a murmured, “fuck, babe, you feel so—” that she doesn’t hear the end of because heat explodes in her belly, pleasure shooting like lightning down her shaky legs and up her bowed spine. 

She comes, hard, and loud, and weightless, their hips slamming hard against the desk a moment later as he pins her there and buries himself, rocking deep into her again, again, again, one arm suddenly looped up around her chest, his hand hooked on her shoulder, holding her against him as she shakes and comes and then she hears him let go, a shuddering moan of release right next to her ear as the powerful tension leaves his body. 

Her arms go limp and slip from his neck, landing palms-down on the desk, her elbows feeling like jelly as she tries to hold herself up. He’s not faring much better, one warm, sweaty arm pressed right along hers, palm rooted to the desktop just the same, his thumb and index finger tangled up with her ring and pinky.

They’re both panting, and her knees feel even more unsteady than they did in the moments right before she broke. She’s not sure how much longer she can stand, wobbling here like a colt, but she knows she’s not ready to separate from him yet. Not after _that_.

His lips press to her shoulder, and she turns to find them with her own, stealing a sloppy kiss, another, one more. 

He pulls out too soon (she can’t help the little whine of protest that slips from her as he does), collapsing into the chair beside them and drawing her with him. She ends up sideways on his lap with an arm looped around his shoulder to keep her from melting down into the floor. She hasn’t seen him properly since he spun her to face the desk; his hair is a mess from her grasping fingers, and he’s flushed and sweaty—and determined. 

One hand hikes her thigh up then slips down and she gasps as he unceremoniously slips three fingers into her, the invasion unexpected but not entirely unwelcome. She wasn’t ready for him to be gone just yet, but she’s also not prepared for the skill with which he finds her g-spot again and starts to work her hard and fast. She stiffens and inhales sharply, exhales hard, her jaw dropping at the sharp snap of pleasure. 

Her orgasm had been deep, all g-spot, but this is more acute, his palm grinding hard against her neglected clit as his fingers thump relentlessly inside her, and she _feels_ her skin flush from her hairline all the way down to her chest, her eyes rolling shut and her head tipping back. His other hand is in her hair immediately, cupping the back of her head, fisting there, urging her head forward again, his forearm anchoring her upper back.

“That’s it, come one more time,” he urges. “Give me one more, Regina; I want to watch you come for me.”

Shit, god, _fuck_ , he can’t _talk_ to her like that, it—it—she—oh! _Oh!_

She feels pinned, stunned in place by a torrent of pleasure, and for a moment she feels outside of herself—she can hear her shouts of pleasure, can feel the heated skin of his shoulder under her palm where she’s gripping so hard she’s sure she’ll leave half-moon marks in her wake, can feel every tightly wound muscle in her body as she twitches in his hold. 

And then she comes again, hard, crying out and curling forward as pleasure zings through her again, the current almost _too_ strong, almost _too_ much. He draws it out for a few seconds but not much longer, slowing his hand to a stop but leaving it inside her as she collapses against him, her oversensitized body shaking like it had the night before when he’d finished so thoroughly wringing her out. Aftershocks chase through her, making her shiver and clench on his fingers; he squeezes his hand, pressing his palm against her clit to draw another one out of her as his lips dot her sweaty brow. 

They cannot keep having sex like _that_ ; she’s not sure she could survive it. 

“That… was bloody gorgeous,” he sighs.

Regina laughs breathily, quite sure that it was not. She could feel the way her face had scrunched, the way her mouth had dropped open, there’s just no way, no possible way, that was an _attractive_ orgasm. It had been way too intense to be pretty. 

But she doesn’t have the energy to argue with him over it, so she just hums and enjoys the pleasant buzzing that has settled into her limbs.

“Sorry, I robbed you of the afterglow,” he tells her softly, his nose nudging against her hair. “It’s just I came so hard I thought my knees were about to give out.”

She can’t figure out what the hell he’s talking about until his fingers draw halfway out, slowly, and then ease back in, just as slowly. He’d fingered her to another mind-numbing orgasm because he didn’t feel like he’d given her enough time to savor the one before it, and it’s so ridiculous and so charming that she feels herself fall in love with him all over again.

She laughs again, delirious, the occasional tremoring shiver still chasing through her muscles. “I don’t think you owe me any apologies right now. You more than made up for it.”

He hums, kisses her temple, and she focuses on the feeling of her heart rate returning to normal, of the post-orgasm heaviness settling in her limbs. 

His thumb rubs back and forth over bare skin as he asks slyly, “How’s the garden?” and Regina snorts. It’s unladylike, but, well… 

“Thoroughly weeded,” she decides, earning a guffaw from Robin and a declaration that his work here is done. 

He eases his fingers from her gently, asking as he does if she’s not too sore. “Mm. I’ll still be feeling you tomorrow, but right now… I’m alright.”

He likes the sound of that, a smug smirk curving onto his lips, but all he says is, “Good.” He glances around the room for a moment, then sighs pleasantly, “This was a fantastic idea. Although it occurs to me, I did not get to take full advantage of that whipped cream. You didn’t get a drop on you.”

She scoffs and lifts her head, one brow quirking. “If you’re about to try to get more sex out of me after _that_ …”

“Not sex, per se, but I do think I have just enough energy to suck whipped cream off your tits for a bit.” He brings one hand to cup her breast, thumb sneaking beneath the material to stroke back and forth over her nipple in a way that makes her inhale. “Especially right now, when they’re still a bit sensitive.”

She has lost her mind entirely. Truly, she has. Because instead of refusing him, instead of begging off for sleep, she lets out a deep sigh and smiles as she tells him, “Well, I did promise you dessert.”

She’s on the guest bed moments later, finally as naked as he is, arms stretched languidly above her head, ankles crossed (there are some places whipped cream just does _not_ need to go, and she doesn’t think she can take another orgasm right now anyway). She feels delightfully exhausted, but Robin seems to have gotten a second wind as he amuses himself with covering both her nipples in dollops of cream before setting to work sucking it away. 

She hasn’t quite lost her post-orgasmic sensitivity yet, so it’s not long before she’s arching her back into his incredibly thorough attention. She wasn’t wrong, the whole endeavour is a bit… sticky… but as he covers each nipple again and mulls over which one to suck clean first, she decides that she doesn't much care.

Not if it means she can feel as blissed out as she does right this moment. 


End file.
